A Town Called Malice
by Namsterine
Summary: Neville Longbottom no longer wants to be seen. Harry Potter is a presence best known seeable. Hermione Granger does not care to be perceived. And all Ron Weasley wants is to just be a bloody inch visible, for heavens sake! fem Neville Longbottom! Go fat girls!


The gleaming sheen of the Hogwarts Express, spotless and bright red, had caught her off guard more so than when she had driven into the walls with Gran, who had been disturbingly calm as she clacked in ox-fur boots towards the foreboding, grey bricks. It was so fitting of the animated air of the platform—mothers cooing over squirming children; fathers nervously regaled tales of their time at the school to bored students; the excited cliques of students huddled close together, seeming like giants to little Neville as she watched all this wide eyed. Golden light streamed down from the glass ceiling a hundred feet above the platform and lent the entire place something dream-like; euphoric. It felt like that for Neville, at least—a dream. She may have been given a wand worthy of her 'magic' but she was near a squib, and if something a witch might do occurred in her presence, Neville could bet an _extremely_ large amount it would _never_ occur again.

Still, for all its splendour, Platform 9 and ¾ wasn't without grimy, gum-specked floors and pigeons overhead squealing and excreting on more than a few heads, judging from the shrieks and shouts echoing through the platform. Neville had gotten her shoe stuck on multiple freshly spat gobbets but the amazed 'O' of her mouth, her cheeks aching and lips dry, didn't dare let out. She was trudging behind her Gran as they weaved through the crowd with differing strengths of grace. Gran had refused to carry her luggage, using her age and ailing muscles as an excuse, yet she had made quite the performance back at the Longbottom Lodge when she had personally dressed a fighting Neville in a nick of time. Then she had proceeded to silence her with threats of sending Howlers at the right exact moment for her to receive them as she ate her breakfast. The moping Neville, poking at her bottle green and snake-skin robes, thought the exchange fair, as fairness went at Longbottom Lodge.

Meantime, Neville's trunk was a hairsbreadth from scraping on the floor and her robes were continually dragging in puddles that were certainly not water. Still, Gran marched on. To where, Neville could only presume one of the trains doors that ran farther than she could see. She was plenty preoccupied, however, with which compartment she might sit in and when she would be able to tear these godawful robes off, but most of all, she pondered wearily on Trevor's condition.

Her Gran was holding him in a glass jar and she had spelled a few holes to puncture the tin lid atop it. Neville couldn't see him—he had been hidden in a pocket that ran along the long, tule sleeves of her Grans midnight blue robes. She had said that girls had cats and owls, not toads and an obsession with strange plants. Neville couldn't have agreed less, but she nodded agreeingly when her Gran had reproached her about it.

"Your father had taken a hamster to school," she had told her, her lined, handsome face stern, as they sat before the fireplace in the guest drawing room the day before they left for Platform 9 and ¾. "Your mother, she told me, had a cat in her Hogwarts years, though it died shortly after she graduated."

"That's…nice," Neville had tested and sipped her tea.

Gran looked at her sharply. "The death of your mother's cat is nice now? I thought you a little more compassionate, Nelly."

"N-no, I didn't—" she spluttered, and the tea she had been so cautiously swallowing scalded her throat.

Gran eyed her with an old disappointment Nelly could feel throbbingly. She trained her watering eyes on her tea as she tried not to cough from the pain at her throat. "I know what you meant, girl. And all I think is that you need practice with your words, and what else blurts out of that mouth, quite like your magic." She shook her head and gazed into the bristling flames, distant in some memory of her long, long past. "If your father had his senses and could see you now—for _Merlin's_ sake, _cough_, you absolute _dunce_!"

_She didn't need to call me a dunce_, Neville had thought glumly, as her skin reverted back from the purpling red to her normal pink, freckled skin and she was wracked with a storm of dry coughs. She had only been trying to look as serious and grim as her Gran. It wouldn't have looked good any way, whether she had screamed and coughed or kept her agonizing silence. After that exchange, Neville had climbed up to her bedroom and curled into herself: a big, guilt-ridden, blonde cat spiraled in the center of silky coverings. Tears ran down her face, like all those other nights Gran talked of her parents as though they were dead; faraway memories that weren't, in fact, living and breathing at St Mungo's—but they were _very_ alive and they were her _parents_.

She didn't realize, however, the accuracy of Gran's perspective that night.

Neville visited them regularly, every Christmas and Easter and Halloween and any other holiday she could convince Gran of. They lay in bed most of the time, thin and worn and smiling wanly, like a smile you might keep from a joke heard a few minutes before. They laughed at the wrong times and they cried when Neville tried to make them laugh. The doctors at St Mungo's encouraged her to interact with them, but always with the delicate warning to not keep her hopes very high. She made sure she never did anymore, as they crushed her feet when they drunkenly danced or tossed open paint bottles at her face while they finger-painted the walls, to the dismay of the nurses. They were shells of themselves, very faraway memories of legends her family so often described.

Gran halted at one of the sliding doors some students were entering through, who were laughing and catching on about each other's summers. The action was so fast Neville didn't realize her pause until she staggered right behind her and smashed her trunk into the back of Gran's knees. The old woman struggled for a while, her creaking knees bending and straightening, feet slipping about and arms flapping around, winglike, in some queer, wobbly dance, and it was only after Neville had gathered her wits that she helped Gran, dropping her trunk and clutching her arm to steady her.

From the view of an outsider, it seemed as though the old woman had suddenly sprung into a tango and the pudgy little girl had joined her by catching a hold of her arm and being swung around by their erratic flailing. Some watched them in amusement or in shock, pointing and laughing, but most recognised that the pair were in a situation needing help when they noticed the distressed expressions on both the woman and the girl and the old woman's skidding boots. They steadied the old woman and set the dizzied girl still. The old woman thanked them breathlessly, her lips tight and face flushed, blazing eyes fixed on the girl across from her as she clutched a quivering jar with an equally quivering toad inside.

Neville wondered then whether she would ever go as far as Hogwarts to receive a Howler from Gran while she ate her breakfast in Hogwarts' famed Great Hall.

* * *

Harry sat in a compartment of the Hogwarts Express with Ron Weasley, gorging on cauldron cakes and sucking on liquorice wands with a small hill of half-finished and fully-sealed sweets on the table. He was slouched on the soft seat, his head limp and his finger drumming his belly in satisfaction—he had never eaten so much that he almost regretted it. He'd dreamt of it as he cooked scrambled eggs for breakfast and roast chicken for dinner and proceeded to watch the Dursleys demolish it with a sneer his way—had dreamt of it as he sat in his cupboard and nibbled at the scraps Aunt Petunia had tossed on a plate for him. But now, he hadn't cooked the food, or been thrown it either, like he was some forlorn mutt, but had _bought_ it with his _own_ money, his own personal stash of wizard coins his dead parents had left for him. It had been quite a sizeable amount in the safe Hagrid had brought him to and he could only imagine what he might buy with all those gleaming coins.

He was snapped out of his reverie at Ron's belch and laughed when his face screwed up.

"That was horrendous!" he said, snatching one of the two pumpkin juice bottles off the table and chugging it noisily down, "Smelt like I'd chewed on squirrels or something?"

Harry scoffed and joined him, draining the remains of his own bottle. "Squirrels? They don't stink, as far as I can tell. Or smell."

Ron paused. "Well, I've never gone close enough to smell one either. Then a rat."

"You've got a rat for a pet, Ron. That's a little rude."

"Oh, shut up! Rat; squirrel; a bloody elephant…what's the difference? They're all animals with four stinking legs, don't they?"

Harry gnawed on the left leg of chocolate frog he had discarded earlier and decided to agree.

He had met Ron when he had been first settling into the compartment. He had been in a sour mood when he had opened the sliding door and stared at Harry for a little, ginger brows crinkled and mouth set. Harry hadn't known what to say, and so they just stared at each other for a while until someone in the hallway behind Ron had shoved—he finally asked if he really was Harry Potter and Harry had slowly nodded. Then he wrestled in his trunk, stored it above the seats in the storage shelves with the feeble help Harry could muster and sat down. It had been a rally of questions about each other's worlds after that.

Harry wished he had lived in the wizarding world for as long as he had been with the Dursleys. They were his last relatives, yes, but familial bonds weren't always as treasured as people usually described them as. Ron complained about his twin brothers unyielding pranks; his little sisters tittle-tattle habit; his prefect brother lordly manners; his mother's scolding's; his father's concerning obsession with muggle (he learnt that meant non-wizard people as Ron cussed the lot) objects. But Ron had it good, and if Harry pointed that out, he could perfectly predict Ron's expression: judging and incredulous, as well as a little betrayed, as if his very serious experiences were insignificant.

"Who'd you get now, Harry? I reckon you found rare Sho Huang with all those frogs you're eating." Ron said when he noticed the chocolate frog in Harry's hand, which was steadfastly melting.

He rustled though some wrapped that has collapsed on top of the card and turned it around when he found it. The picture was of a small black man with a head of black kinks, a sharp nose and a wrinkled forehead. Below the portrait was the name _Mungo Bonham_ and he caught onto the word _Hospital_ as his eyes roved over his description.

"Mungo," he replied, continuing, "Mungo Bonham. Says he created a—"

"Yes, yes," Ron waved a hand in the air. "A hospital. _The_ hospital. St Mungo's. You could eat a frog in your entire life, and I could bet you Hogwarts you'd get Mungo."

Harry studied the portrait of Mungo Bonham as he grinned and smiled and gestured pointing hands around his chaotic office, which he glimpse when he twisted the card side to side— lined jars of objects and suspended animals; brimming floor-to-ceiling shelves; vials with powders and still liquids; steaming and bubbling beakers and slender tubes in holders; the side of a piping cauldron to the very right of Bonham.

And as Harry strained to see the entire inside of a large, dubious-looking jar on one of the shelves far left shelf, the sliding door flew open, startling Harry so much that the chocolate frog he had dropped into his mouth lodged into his throat and he choked momentarily.

A girl stood at the door, harried and flushed. She was short and quite fat, with frizzy, blonde hair split into two long pigtails and frenzied locks haloing her round, pink face. She paused at Harry's choking and after he had recovered, he noticed her raised brows at the hill of sweets on the table.

"You want some?" Ron asked, probably noticing her stare before him.

She blushed a darker red and stuttered. "Oh, no, no. I'm fine. My Gran gave me some sickles, so I'm…fine." She turned to Harry and asked with a frown, "Are you okay?"

Harry cleared his throat and shrugged. "For almost choking my throat out? Yeah, I'm fine too."

Ron chortled at that and Harry flung Mongo Bonham's card at his head, sharply catching him across the nose.

"Did you need anything?" Harry asked as he dodged Ron's failed attempt at flinging the card back.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, as though she had forgotten the purpose of her coming here. _She looks the forgetful type, _Harry thought, but she _did_ have her school robes on already, plain and black, with the quartered sigil of Hogwarts bold on its breast. Harry wondered whether he should don his own.

"Umm…my toad's missing…" she said and began fumbling in the pocket of a dress under her robes.

"Toad?"

"Yes. Trevor. He's, umm…"

"Large; a pea green; slightly spotted, brown and yellow—the spots; he's about 6 inches long; male, though that's pretty evident from the used pronoun; and if you happen to not know what a toad looks like, since you repeated what Neville just told you, they're typically slimy, hop around on two back feet, are amphibians, have quite a stout, neckless head and they croak…like frogs. Toads and frogs are relatives, by the way. Hello, Neville."

Neville started at the voice and sheepishly muttered. "Yeah. Of course. What I was going to say. And hi." She fished out a photograph from the pocket and raised it. Sure enough, a thick, slimy toad, pea green and spotted sprung about in a crooked circle on tiled floors.

The voice had belonged to a second girl at the door, also dressed in her black robes. She was much taller than Neville, thin and dark-skinned with large buckteeth that jutted out of her mouth. She was cool and calm, and after such a long sentence, steady-breathed. She inspected the two boys like petrified insects under a magnifying glass, and she didn't like what she was seeing as her eyes distastefully swept over the sweets and the slouched positions of the boys.

"You may be wizards," she said, "but cavities and holes aren't impossible, you know? I'd advise you to lay off and dress. My father's a dentist, so I would know."

"Which we could fix pretty nicely with magic, by the way," Ron retorted.

"I know, but it only risks more severe ones, and magic can't grow back a tooth that's been rotted out of its place. Marta Guldberg came to that conclusion in her book _the wizard's and witch's fabled omnipotence_." She looked down her nose at him, "It's only for your benefit, seeing that it _does_ seem like you need the advice. Anyhow, what's your name? I'm Hermione. Granger—Hermione Granger." And she stuck out a good-natured hand. Harry could only ogle at it and wonder what the word _omnipotence_ meant.

Ron freckles disappeared under his flush and he sprung up onto his feet at his spluttering tongue. "I've got _brilliant_ teeth, you…" he managed when Neville hurriedly stepped forward.

"I-I'm so sorry!" Neville squeaked and grabbed Hermione's outstretched hand. "She didn't mean that. At all! She was just…being…"

Hermione frowned down at the flustered Neville. "I never _not_ mean anything I say, Neville. That's unthinking and rude. That's lying." She glanced back at Ron and Harry. "I didn't mean to offend you. I was just trying to start an exchange, and the lollies seemed like the most obvious to mention."

The four studied the sweets for a moment. It was the most obvious thing in the compartment, with more sweets and crinkled wrappers covering the fabric floor. Harry straightened and plucked a coconut éclair off the table and offered it to the two girls at the door, then he grabbed a second since there were, after all, _two_ girls at the door.

"Care to join us then?"

Neville looked tempted but Hermione shook her head. "We're quite busy…"

"Harry."

"Harry. Trevor and all."

"We would've loved to though," Neville added with a kind smile. "But…Trevor's somewhere on this train and I'd hate to catch a Howler from Gran during breakfast, if you know what I mean."

"We don't." Ron said, deadpan, and turned his back on them as he watched the rolling green fields the train was passing.

Neville paused and recognized the dismissal. "Right…uh. Well, if you see him—"

"We'll look for you," Harry finished. He'd never been in a space so uncomfortable and tight but he had swiftly decided he was not fond of it.

After a few more terse words, the two girls finally left and Ron sighed irritably then suddenly bared his teeth at Harry. They were wedged with cake and stained washed-down hues of red and blue from some Johnson's Juicy Jawbreakers he had been sucking on.

"She's not right, is she, Harry? Else, Fred and George would've mentioned it."

* * *

**Notes:** so I've deleted this chapter, the ACCIDENTALLY, deleted the first chapter and am now a little distressed...

Anyways, this took me some time to get out (a year to be exact) but its here. I'd much appreciate it if you commented on anything and shared this fanfiction for wider appraisals.

Thank you


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